Waiting For My Real Life To Begin
by MessengerOfDreams
Summary: A washed up boxer and a troubled veteran try and rebuild life together when they're all that they have. AU set in New York City.
1. A Leisurely Day

**And then there is this.**

 **This should physically be my biggest story ever. It's essentially based off of a story that I won't publish that I attempted to make for the holiday contest back in December. The story was, to be frank, a trainwreck, but I loved the dynamics between the two characters, so I carried it over to a new setting. It's essentially an AU of the two main characters. Pretty slice of life while also developing over a short time span of vast change. The story's been written from start to finish but I'm sure you'll not see the version I have now by the end, such is an author's dissatisfaction and impatience.**

 **The main male counterpart has always been Mac, his part's super specific. But the female protagonist was unclear to me. I had a strange sort of interpretation of Duck Hunt going on, but then that was basically an OC. So I pocketed the OC and tried to fit the character to an Advance Wars character similar to Paradigms, thinking it fit the character I always saw as leading the OS troops from the assist trophy, Sam. But then I realized that was a sloppy patch for the character that I realized was a sendup to a character I think I've worked with more than anyone, Samus Aran. Especially considering Samus and Mac is a pairing I've always liked and apparently is popular considering the shortlist of things that pop up when I google Little Mac is "and Samus" (y'all got good motherfuckin' taste), I realize that this is just my latest interpretation of our favorite blonde pillar of badass angst.**

 **My utmost thanks to the magnificent writing goddess Lady Paprika, who helped me edit the original story. I'm sorry that I've exchanged it for this new work, but your hard work has been great in getting me to re-evaluate this. I hope you're proud. You've been amazing.**

 **So I'm hoping this goes over well. I've been editing this for the last six months but now it's time to just wing it. Hope for the best. Here's hoping I don't fall.**

 **Disclaimer: These characters are merely vessels that I borrow for awhile to carry my vision across a world of rampant communication, and I promise to leave them better than I found them. The fic's title is courtesy of a beautiful, beautiful Colin Hay song of the same name.**

 **Let's do this.**

 **Chapter 1**

 **A Leisurely Day**

 **Mac's PoV**

I find myself in a locker room six feet under the bar, recovering and reeling from my latest fight. I'm resting against a locker with a boxing glove on the small of my back, keeping the bruise comfortable. I'm dabbling blood off my eyebrow with the rag, knowing I'll have to throw it out soon to avoid arousing suspicion from you. It looks like it was tasked with cleaning up the remains of ten dead bodies. I've got an ace bandage around my arm, and an ice pack on top of my head. I'm in such rough shape that I can't believe I won.

I'm just trying to figure out how I can fake it until I make it, so I never have to make it again.

My opponent, a guy named Ike who's got at least a foot and a half on me and built enough to contain two Little Macs, is recovering across from me. He regards me with a professional veneer beyond that of what I normally expect. He's fixed up faster than I, clearly more practiced at the routine. "Can I help you?" he asks.

I've just beaten his ass and won the cash prize, and here he is trying to help me. I shake my head, used to the routine. It's not a matter of method, but of time. He accepts that answer, packing his bag full of things. Unlike mine, nothing is hidden. He's a boxer through and through- imperfect and untrained, true, but most of these underground folk are. I'm just amazed that I've still kept enough skill to avoid being swept under the rug like a long forgotten novelty act deserves to be.

After a few silent, awkward minutes, I finally am rested enough to put my first aid kit away. There's a bandage on my cheek that I know I can't keep on forever because it's a dead giveaway. There's a reason I do late morning matches for the drunks that don't know when to leave a bar, an all too familiar sight. I need the rest of the day to heal so I can pretend to be normal when I'm home, like I'm completely fine, so I don't worry you and instead lie to you like it's the better alternative. Considering how much anxiety you put yourself through, it often does seem like the logical alternative. I take the books out of my bag, place the supplies underneath in perfect order, and then put my books back on top of them.

Ike notices. "Moonlighter?" he asks.

"Not exactly moonlight, but basically."

Ike sits up, nodding politely. "What do you study?"

"Eh…" Good question, but I bullshit it. "Hoping to work up to sports journalism."

"Better up there than down here for some people, I suppose." He finally addresses the elephant in the room after a little bit of hesitation. "You trying to work your way back up?"

I shake my head. "I know my prime has pretty much passed, but I still don't mind a match every now and again. This is just what I know."

"I can respect that," he responds. "Just take care of yourself. If you want to work your way out of this, you need to make it out in one piece."

I smirk. "I think I can handle myself."

Ike laughs. "True enough. A match at a time, at least. Enough matches can wear you down, though." I lift my bag up, getting ready to go. As I prepare to leave, Ike says, "If you and yours are ever up for a drink sometime, meet up here. It's not half-bad."

I shake my head. "Thanks for the offer, but I'm beyond drinking."

Ike nods understandingly. It takes him a second to realize his faux-pas. "Oh. My apologies, it hadn't crossed my mind." And yet, sadly, it did. "Regardless, hope to see you around. Take care."

I walk away with a forced smile, still finding his behavior to be entirely too bizarre. It's not like he was a slouch in the ring- he had the build of some of the old nemesi I used to face- but he's so relaxed and at peace with himself, despite working in a place I could go the rest of my life without seeing again. Even as I hit the bus stop, he doesn't quite leave my mind. I pop some aspirin to help ease my throbbing head, wondering how the hell I'm going to write a half-decent book review now. It's crazy how even when I'm on the right track I'm still going nowhere fast.

I count the minutes until I'm due home, and check my reflection in a puddle in front of me. I look mostly presentable, and I'm back in my day clothes. I think you said you had therapy today, so I know I'm going to need to be home. I just hope that you'll be okay. If it's as it usually is, I'll need to be in decent shape. Some fights last forever, after all.

 **~MoD~**

 **Samus' PoV**

"Well," my perfectly coordinated therapist says, scrunching up her perfect nose in her attempts to appear perfectly cool in front of today's hatred for the world from her favorite patient. "We've certainly covered a lot today."

I suck the snot back into my nose and nod. "Suuuuuure did," I drawl with the utmost sarcasm, because I don't feel like I've gone anywhere. I check the clock again like a student waiting for the class to end. Thankfully the second hand has only half a cycle to go until fifty after, when my appointment ends.

"I apologize that we've been short on time today," she says, even though she gave me a fucking miracle by letting me stretch out the time with my rambling. "I think it'd be best if you returned tomorrow. We certainly have a lot to finish."

Fuck. Serves me right for stalling for time. I nod and offer a half-interested "Sure, sure." I know I probably should, though. I mean, I've gotta be high risk if she's asking to see me tomorrow. Most vets I still keep in contact with are lucky to get in twice a month, much less twice in two days. I notice the second's just passed the minute mark and decide it's time to go. I grab my bag and bid a quick farewell. "Later, Zel."

"Tomorrow, same time." Her perfectly musical voice chases after me as I walk out before I'm pressed into further conversation. As I weave out of the VA Hospital, I don't make eye contact with anyone. All I can think of is how many drinks I can buy with five bucks and if it'll be enough to forget. Now it's easy to see how I ended up in therapy.

It's weird how much my drinking habits correlate to my therapy appointments. Kind of like clockwork, or something. I can't imagine what it is about spilling a war and a half of secrets that could drive me to drink two beers minimum every Tuesday evening. Forgetting, that shit's easy. I thought therapy would be an easy cure. That talking through my issues would fix everything. Maybe I just really wanted an easy fix. I think I'm realizing that there's not an easy fix for this. You'd think after six years and unfixable injuries I'd realize this for myself.

The one-sided conversations I barreled through today bleed out my brain as I ride today's old, creaky, begging-for-death bus, but I'll fix that. I compared enlistment to being led to a white van under the promise of candy. You're expecting an awesome time- being a hero, saving the world, being in an action movie with all kinds of awesome people- but not long after you ended up in there you realize you just stepped into the worst experience of your life that doesn't benefit you at all. Zelda always seems to get a stifled chuckle or a choked gasp at my poetic analysis of my demons that she's too perfect to make too noticeable. I count the times a session I can make her squirm.

Today it was just two, but she really got a kick when I said that I'd tell everyone if I could to never enlist and to draft all the politicians instead, make them fight their own battles. I love whenever I can even get a chip in her perfectly robotic composure with my vitriol. I mean, she's gotta talk to how many jaded vets in a day, and it's me who almost gets her to lose her shit. I'm just that fucking good. Today was definitely a listen-to-Sam-ramble-and-hate-the-fucking-universe day.

Now I just hope it's a drink-so-Sam-doesn't-remember-this-misery-by-morning night.

Five bucks won't buy anything nice, but it'll buy two of something at the bodega. I hop off the bus and creep into the liquor aisle of the store and try and find something. Already I feel guilty, because I know you don't want this for me. Not because you don't think I can handle it, but because you're afraid of any possibility that I can't. And the smell. I don't remember what you mentioned as tempting symptoms that crawl in the back of your mind, but I know smell is second to taste. Ugh. I hate myself as I buy them but I resolve to get the shittiest kind possible so it doesn't remotely tempt you. I don't really need the taste. I need the effects. Something to knock me out and actually make me giggly for a little bit.

I slam the two bottles on the counter. The owner, who I don't think has said a single word in the five months I've lived here, rings me up and takes my cash in the familiar process. I take the dollar in change and think for a second. No, I'm not gonna be a total jackass about it. I tell him to hold up. There's no line, and he doesn't really care, so I walk to the drink isle and get you a big bottle of Gatorade. Like a true athlete, you drink the stuff. You say you used to be sponsored by them at your peak, which is impressive on paper but, like with me, parts of the past you like to pretend don't matter anymore. But hopefully this communicates that even when I'm not, I'm looking out for you. Hopefully you are too.

I try not to think of old Mac getting his face busted in the ring for the sake of the sport. More things I drink to forget. I buy your Gatorade and walk the extra block home, but even by then I've already popped open the first beer. Things already get a little lighter when I climb downstairs to our apartment, first drink taken, preparing frenetic apologies when you open the door, looking both happy to see me and disappointed to see me this way. Sorry, Mac, but you're getting the altered version of Sam tonight. It's for the best for both of us, really.

 **Depending on the length of the passages, which can vary dramatically, you might get one chapter just of Mac or Samus, or one of both. It all depends. Like I said, this is a work in progress.**

 **If you're interested, follow. If you're enthusiastic for better or worse, drop a review. If you've got faith, favorite. If you don't altogether care, then you can go your own way.**

 **Take care, my readers, and thank you for indulging me with your presence.**


	2. A Lovely Drink

_Chapter 2_

"I'm really, really sorry," you insist as you drink. You seem as pensive as ever as you look around the room, vigilant against an unknown enemy. The days of the military are never as far past you as time would dictate. I hold your hand, but it's limp and lifeless in mine, like a damp sponge. I don't know what you're looking for, but I try and transmit some life into you, running my thumb along your pulse. You don't react, and it concerns me, but I keep at it, a loyal servant to an unwitting master.

I want to ask you what's wrong, but I don't want to make you tell me, so I keep my mouth shut and watch you, like you're a piece of living performance art. Brave, right?

You finally force yourself to relax, even though it goes against the idea of relaxation. "Thanks," you say, squeezing my wrist, "but I'm good." You're not, but I pretend to be convinced, and I let go of your hand. You grab your second beer, whereas I can't find it in me to look at one. Just keep my stomach steeled and keep dodging. Guess I'm still brave in some ways but you've been vigilant at protecting others, and I'm just a guy on the wrong side of the tracks. Everyone needs a coach, I guess.

You take a large swig, repeating, "I'm sorry. Really, really sorry." You don't clarify what for, but any fool could notice how much I'm trying to pretend the drinks don't exist, whereas you're trying to drink until you don't exist. I shrug, because you're a more dominating presence in the room than the beer you drink, and you're a strong enough deterrent for many things, relapsing included. The beer ceases to exist in less than a minute of uncomfortable silence. Thankfully two is all we have. One for you, and one for you.

You try and recline against me, pretending that you are inherently affectionate instead of inherently troubled. "Thanks, doll," you say, head against my shoulder. It seems like a pillow to you when it feels like shattered glass to me. It still hasn't quite healed up, but I pretend it doesn't hurt so I can keep my lies to myself and you can keep your flaws to yourself.

"How's school?" you ask suddenly, nearly leaping up, as if you've just realized how long it's been since you've been inquisitive to my goings on.

I shrug, lifting your head with it. "Literature's pretty good. I'm trying to broaden my vocabulary, and nothing really forces you to do that like two-hundred year old books. It's like they're written in an entirely different English."

You laugh. "Yeah, eleven-year-old me relied on a lot of abridged versions. When they say English is an evolving language... if they say that I dunno... I fuckin' believe it. I think CPS needs to be called on people who make sixth graders read original texts of Robert... Mark Twain... or something."

You laugh like the idea of what you said is the funniest thing in the world, and hell, I smile, because it almost feels like one of those days where we can pretend nothing is wrong, where the corny, cynical jokes feel natural. "Writing's going pretty well too. I mean, I'm not exactly Shakespeare but I don't really want to be."

"Just bullshit to get to journalism?"

I nod, even though journalism is just one of many possibilities I'm considering. Debates in my mind are best remaining in my mind. "Prereqs are a bitch."

You groan. "Well, just keep marching along, Mac." I could say the same for you; you've been in a vicious cycle since your deployment ended, and I don't know how else I can help you but by being here and pretending everything is fine.

"It's better than getting beat to shit for a few bucks," you add absently, and shame flushes my skin to the point where I can't believe you don't notice. I don't feel ashamed for keeping at the grind- you've already done more than enough putting yourself in harm's way to take care of those you love that I'm more than happy to do the same. Part of me wishes that you didn't care enough to worry about my well-being to the point where I feel the need to lie to you to keep you comfortable. Part of me wishes you cared enough for me to be honest. It's an empty balance.

It's quiet as I reach for my latest book and read dutifully. It's _Lord of the Flies._ I think I read this when I was in middle school, and most of it flew over my head. Right now, I can keep track of where it's going, but I find more and more that I don't really care. Perhaps I was never made to be more than a ghetto punk with boxing gloves, but I feel nothing while reading this book. Whatever message the author thought he was sending falls flat because I just don't care. I force myself to read through the page while you peer over my shoulder. I'm skimming at this point, looking for talking points that might be on the test or useful for a review. When I go to turn the page, you give a disappointed hum.

"You can borrow this when I'm done," I tell her. Really, you can have it, because I don't need it. Maybe you'll make it worth something, because apparently this lit classic is too highbrow for me. I last another ten pages before my ability to care hits low reserves.

"Cool," you say. "I remember… he used to have books like this littered all over the place."

He, the invisible third presence in the room in a four person house only two people have ever lived in. "Did he?" I respond, my throat as raw as glass.

"Yeah," you explain, like it's nothing. "Just all kinds of fancy highbrow books in his barracks. And I used to think, oh this guy's gotta be a pretentious prick, big deal you have Tim O'Brien, so does everyone else. Then, once we actually started working together, it's all basketball and sports bars, which is _amazing."_

"So what were the books for?" I ask, actually kind of interested, holding the book tighter as if memories would invalidate it.

"That's the funny part," you say, laughing. "Like, he liked reading the books alone but he thought people would embarrass him for it. I tried reading them. And they were actually pretty good, ancient English aside. But it's like…" you take a deep breath to keep from crying. "Then we got to know each other, and I realized it was more than just the sensitive guy with books. And that's kind of scary to know someone that well." You take another deep breath and add "But it's fun, too."

I smile, but it hurts me to think of what we don't have anymore. I try and imagine Doc reading War and Peace, but instead I think of him reading the newspaper while watching me jump rope at light speed, teasing me for being so unceasingly serious. At a point where he taught me everything I needed to know, but just wanted to make sure I kept on the up and up, until he couldn't save me anymore.

I think I was happier thinking about your old boyfriend.

I set the book down reluctantly. I feel your gaze follow my hand, so I change the subject. "What've you been up to?" I ask.

"Still looking," you reply. "Might get a call back from an office firm up the street."

"Legit? Nice." The prospect sneaks a smile onto my face.

"Of course, legit," you tell me, scowling. "I mean, it's secretarial but it's something."

"Definitely. Better than donating your body to entertainment."

You laugh, but it sounds more like you're clearing your throat of poison. "Yeah, I'm definitely done with the risking life and limb business."

"Good." The more you say it, the more sure you are, and the more relieved I am.

It's silent, too silent, while we consider everything that's going on. I really hope this works out for you, but I know not to get too excited too easily.

"Only problem is I have to wear a dress," you crack.

"Aw, whatever," I fire back. "You look nice all dressed up."

The words escape my mouth before I can evaluate them. That's the closest I've gotten to letting something slip. You elbow me as a response, but your face is hot enough to feel on my own cheek. Imagining you in your dress makes me think of the girl that I imagine you would be before you traded the blue dress for camo and a machine gun. I'm not sure if she even exists, you before the war, but it's nice to dream about life being that simple.

"You still remember that night?" you ask, and I almost don't hear you.

"Yeah," I admit, and it's nice to be honest for once. "I remember it really well."

You laugh dryly, your voice cracked. There's not much else to say. You're nearly falling asleep on my shoulder. It's sweet and makes me feel valued, but it also doesn't feel like your intent matches my visions. Empty balances, empty scales.

I ask "do you need to go to bed?" You don't respond, and before I know it your breath has changed from that of the living to that of the temporary dead. One eye closed, the other forever open, you've drunk yourself to sleep. I don't know where you're at right now, but I'd like to imagine it's at Early Christmas morning, the memories you want to remember. An hour that led to open hearts, that led to letting to and bottling up, that led to here.

I slowly, gingerly lift you up and set you back down on the couch, placing a pillow beneath you. There's a throw blanket on the back of the couch I settle on you. Like a mother tucking in someone incapable of fixing themselves, I make sure you're comfortable before I leave. You don't look the part, still dressed in mismatched clothes from the back of the closet, with pale blonde hair wilted away against your cheek, and one eye forever staring at me from beyond, but there's only so much I can do.

I grab a flashlight off the coffee table and turn it on, taking my book with me. As I turn the lights down I use it to guide my way to my bedroom, which isn't too far away. I have to be careful, because this place is a mess left long untreated by two downtrodden people trying to find their way out. Honestly I think part of the reason I spend so little time here is to forget that we're so broke we live in shit row and use a flashlight to navigate the hallways so we don't use too much power.

I make it to my bedroom, stripping to my boxers and lying down. I'm not quite sleepy yet, but I really wish I wasn't so awake. I try and calm myself, taking deep breaths, closing the world around me down thought by thought. I try and recreate calming songs in my head, letting them drown out any of the spare worries and loose strings I've yet to tie. Still, I can't help but feel too restless to sleep just yet. I wonder if the two bottles of beer were more of a sleep aid than they were an escape. I wish I could drink with such levity, without it destroying whatever it is I call my structure. The last thing a crawl back up needs is another push down.

At the very least, you're down here fighting the world with me, but sometimes I wish you were in here with me, just to help me sleep. It'd be nice to enjoy my company with you with complete honesty, but I have other things I should be worrying about. Working on my book review, trying to force a writing piece out of myself. The match I have tomorrow definitely requires some sleep. I'm not at my prime anymore, and I doubt anyone remembers who I am enough to await my return. Just gotta stand as tall as five feet would let me.

I grab the book off the nightstand and use the flashlight to read it in the dark. The words slowly lose meaning over time, and become the trance I need to help myself lose touch with reality long enough to sleep. I sleep, and unfortunately I dream. I'm in the ring, because even in sleep I can't seem to get away from reality. I'm fighting against an unknown opponent. Usually in dreams, the way you expect it to go is how it goes. I wonder if I'm fighting against someone I know, but it turns out I'm fighting against someone I don't know well enough.

Myself.

I don't wake up. I'm barely shocked. I think even here I'm recognizing just how stale of a guilt trip my mind's playing on me. Dream me fights himself to death, and the fight becomes a blur that matters as little as the book I can barely read. It's not myself, it's not who I truly am, but it's who I need to be.

I wake up at 3am alone like nothing happened. I don't feel rested at all, but I turn over and wait for it to take me again. It's just too bad I haven't done much good at leaving myself open to the things I want. Just keep going through the motions, not changing anything, leaving the scales empty.

 **~MoD~**

I wake up on the couch at seven to the sound of coffee brewing. I'm covered in a blanket with a pillow behind my head. It feels nice, even if I look like shit and am still in the torn-to-ruins clothes I fell asleep in. I almost don't want to get up, but the idea of coffee is lovely, so I creak up to sitting level, tossing the blanket over the couch.

I peer over it to see if you're in the kitchen. You are, humming and strutting around in a jersey and shorts, the same as you wore last night. You look like you got maybe four hours of sleep at best, and that those four hours cheated you out of any rest. Poor babe.

You bring over the cups of coffee just as we make eye contact. I feel a little queasy, but not overly hung over. Still, it's kind of pathetic that two beers will still take it out of me. I used to knock them back easy and feel jack shit, drinking with the other captains and impressing even Bernard with how much I could hold onto. Now it's just a cheap trick to get me to sleep.

"Thanks, Mac," I tell you as you hand me a mug with a chipped handle and the logo of a nearby bakery uptown I'll probably never go to. That'd involve us being a little richer than we are. This place wasn't made for roommates in the first place, but I don't mind sleeping on the couch to save a few dollars and what's left of my sanity.

I take my first drink. There's just the right amount of creamer in it to make it taste neither like tar nor a milkshake. You're practically a coffee wizard. Yours is as black as the night, but you tough it out for the sake of raw caffeine. Whatever gets you through the day, I guess. No bullshit or pretense from the vantage point of being Mac Louis.

"So what you got goin' on today?" I ask innocently. You seem a bit startled by the question, but I chalk it up to a lack of sleep.

"Not much," you reply groggily. "Lit, as usual. A little work at the student store. Probably do some studying too."

I nod. "Good to hear. Just keeping at it." I look down into my coffee as I add, "and here I am just waiting for a call back. Crossing my fingers."

You put your spare hand on my knee, and it's so flat it's like you forgot your fingers could bend. And it's not like I'd mind even just the slightest bit more affection from you. "Don't worry," you say. "You're doing your best."

I am, I think. I'd like to think I'm not totally useless. I'm looking for a job and trying to keep myself going. It's hard not to feel useless when you're in college going through a bunch of bullshit for the sake of a better future for yourself and a financial aid check. I know that I should consider starting school, and that a bunch of veteran buddies of mine are doing just fine in there, but that'd involve knowing what I want to do with my life, and I just don't. My goals right now are "sleep peacefully, reconstruct, and be happy with life again." And I reckon I'm starting to fill the gauge up, but damn does it still not feel like I have anything in there. You'd think letting go of such a severe burden would be easier, not harder, but I think it's just a part of me now, a massive tumor filling the startling amount of space between my jutting shoulders.

The rest of the coffee drinking is quiet. It's nice to have you next to me, just for the sole fact that I'm not alone. I've lost a lot of people in my life, but somehow you seem like you're a safe enough distance from me to be permanent.

"You want another cup?" you ask me.

"All yours," I reply, because you need it. You smile, finally wrapping your fingers around my knee for a spare moment before getting up to pour yourself a second cup, even though it looks more like you need a third or fourth. You don't drink anymore, and you're at the point where you can foolishly indulge my habits with a steeled stomach. I wish sometimes that you'd push back at me, show some care for yourself that you've spoiled me with. I'm still trying to fight for myself, but sometimes I wonder if you completely forgot how important you are.

I enjoy the silence and your company. You don't have to do much, just share some space with me before I'm left alone. It's a pleasant distraction; sleep without the nightmares. So much time has been spent like this, but I haven't regretted a second of it. Eventually, so much time has passed despite it feeling like weeks and seconds that you realize you have to go. You grab your bookbag, which I've just now noticed is right next to you, and you wave a short goodbye to me.

"Later, gator," I reply too quietly. I watch you walk out the door, offering one last smile. The room feels colder without you, and the living room stretches out like a battlefield against no one. Leave it to me to be shit for letting go; even as I try to escape the military I can't help but look at everything like it's my own personal war.

I catch the time. It's only eight-thirty. I know I have to kill another two hours before catching the bus to therapy. Oh yeah, we didn't finish the session because I got caught up in my thoughts. I'm making my therapist a fuckton of money, at least.

I decide it's high time to get dressed regardless, walking into Mac's bedroom where all the clothes are kept. As I step in, I end up tripping on a book. I shout louder than I need to since it's just a book, immediately embarrassed. I survey my surroundings. Christ, it's a mess. Mac's not given this room an ounce of thought in god knows how long. Then again, I know the rest of the house is in similar shape. Maybe I should clean some of this shit up.

First, I get dressed. I trade my stained Social Distortion T-shirt and baggy jeans for some black knee-high shorts and a tank top. I can already tell from what little sunlight beams into this room from the basement window that it's not going to be a light and easy day. As I throw my clothes into the dirty clothes, I make a mental note to go down to the laundromat this weekend. I think we have enough in quarters to make it happen. I check the change jar on Mac's nightstand. As I shake it, it makes enough noise to be reassuring. Yep, clean clothes this weekend. Awesome.

Speaking of clean clothes, I pull out the gala dress I haven't worn since Christmas. It used to be my favorite, and it still looks nice enough. It's a pleasant midnight blue, fits my frame well enough, despite me looking like Paul Bunyan if he hadn't eaten in weeks, but it isn't trashy. I could wear it on the offchance I do get the callback from the job. I mean, it'd better work, because it's the only dress I have, and somehow I doubt Mac has any extras.

I hang it up on the hanger and settle into my new clothes. I leave Mac's room, because even if this place needs a decent cleaning I'm not going to start there. I already feel intrusive enough looking at his empty, unkempt bed three sizes too large for such a little guy. I leave and pledge to start in the kitchen. As I trek through the hallway, I hear my phone ringing.

Oh, dear Lord.

I manage to catch it and flip it open just before the ringing stops. "Hellome," I blurt.

"Ms. Aran?" I hear on the other end.

"Oh! Mr. Handler!" I reply, putting on just enough cheer to not look as desperate as I feel. "It's nice to hear from you again!"

"The pleasure is all mine," Mr. Handler replies in a warm voice where every emotion is perfectly, enviably measured. "Do you have a moment of time?"

I have all too many, is what I want to say, but just as I reply, "definitely," it hits me that he could just as easily be calling to let me know I didn't get the job, and some professional, ice-cold corporate woman who knows more than a half-crazed soldier probably took my place. I swallow and let him continue.

"Glad to hear it," Mr. Handler continues. "I just wanted to let you know that you've advanced to the next round of the application process."

My breath catches, but I squeak out, "that's great!" before I actually say that it's bitching, my initial instinct, because this is very, very bitching.

"Excellent," he replies. "We'd like to have you work for us for a three-hour shift today, starting at 11:30. This is to see how you function in the secretary role. You'll be paid for your time, of course, regardless of whether or not you get the job. Does that work for you?"

Oh, shit. I look at the time. It's 8:45. I can get there on time, but I know it's at the expense of my therapy appointment. I quickly weigh the pros and cons, but I know that if I show any hesitancy I'll lose the place before I even have it. I need this job more than anything else right now, so I say with forced, fake confidence, "I can definitely make it."

"Fantastic!" he says. "So, I'm hoping you've learned enough about the conduct and dress code to show up as we need you. If you get here a half-hour earlier so we could prep you, it'd be much appreciated. Above all, just do your best and try not to overthink it. Too many people overdo it and they come off as overpromising. Just be natural, and you'll do fine."

"Absolutely," I tell him, trying not to think of how many other women like me desperate for a place in this world have come begging and clawing at their door for a job.

"So I'll see you then," he finishes.

"You got it. Be there at eleven," I finish, and he hangs up. I collapse onto the couch, trying not to lose my mind. I can't believe that I made it this far in the first place. I'm a fuckin' natural at hiding how fucked up I am. Therapy disappears to the back of my mind as I jump up, too excited to contain it. Even if it's just the prospect, it's enough to make me cheer through the hallways and sing in the shower like a damned fool.

Eventually, I find myself in Mac's bedroom, finding it weird to be dressing from the feet up in someone else's room. Even if this is how it's been since we became roommates, I still feel oddly vulnerable undressed in my friend's room, despite how empty it is. I throw my dress on, straightening and organizing it, looking as presentable as possible. I tie my hair up into a bun, miles better than the wilted mess it is on normal days. I look at myself in the mirror. I realize I could almost be mistaken for looking elegant.

It feels so weird to be dressed up again, but I like it. I feel stronger than I actually am.


End file.
